


flotsam and jetsam

by goldstraw



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Ficlet, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1594295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldstraw/pseuds/goldstraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tumblr inspired fic, all in one place for your viewing pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and the history books forgot about us

Their time is nigh.

The war has taken too many for them to escape its grasp. Ahh, there was a moment when death was cold; a freezing force that took you as quickly as you would let it. Now, though, death is hot. It burns. It scorches and blisters everything in its path. It is a painful demise; how long can one bear the flickers of flame before a scream escapes? It is a new death for a new realm. The Dragon Queen is not merciful. She does not understand what has come to pass, only that there are souls, dark damaged disloyal souls, who deserve this new punishment, this new death.

Far down the list of souls appears a pair of knights. Both are blonde and tall and inseparable. They were caught together, held in chains together and now they face their end together. On their knees in front of the Dragon Queen, their hands clasp together in a grip which no guard could undo. The room is hushed, the audience expectant. These two were something once, they whisper, a long time ago, when the world was dark and cold.

“Death,” says the silver Queen from on high. “For both.”

The crowd shifts and murmurs like the sea, but the two knights do not move.

“Scour their histories,” says the silver Queen. “Here and forever after. I will have no memories of the old in my new.”

The blonde knight, the one with blue eyes, turns to the other.

“I won’t forget.”

The green eyed knight presses a kiss on the other. “Nor will I.”

She smiles. “Then that is enough.”

He smiles. “It is.” 


	2. Jaime can't sleep and asks Brienne to tell him a story

Brienne sighs at the body tossing and turning next to her. It is not a comfortable bed, true. Indeed it is not a comfortable inn, but the best they could afford since their passage to Essos took all their coin. And it is hot. Hot with a heat that creates a sweat; a sticky, tiring constant sheen even at night. But she is coping and Jaime is being ridiculous.

She sits, pulling at the thin sheet that covers them in discomfort, and looks down at a frowning Jaime. He is groaning and sighing and she cannot take it anymore.

“Jaime. Do you intend to spend every night like this?” she snaps, wiping away a bead of sweat that runs down the side of her nose.

“Next to you, wench? Most certainly.” He is grinning at her, looking up beneath strands of damp hair, more blonde than ever care of the endless sun.

She lets out an exasperated sigh. She is no maiden these days but no wife either. It didn’t seem to be the most important thing anymore.

“We need to rest. We must travel far tomorrow.”

“Then tell me a story,” asks Jaime as he moves so that his head is on her lap. He gazes up at her, his hand finding hers.

“What kind of story?” she asks.

“Whatever you wish.”

She smiles back, fondly. Her other hand strokes his hair and she thinks of what tale she could tell. There is one… a distant memory. She remembers it being told, her father’s voice appearing suddenly in her mind.

“There was once a prince. He was glorified throughout the kingdom. He was everything to all men. A god, a knight, a lover in their dreams.”

“Sounds familiar,” interrupts Jaime with a smirk.

Brienne rolls her eyes but laughs all the same. “Then you should know that such a prince could never exist. No one can please everyone all the time. After a time, his father died and the prince became a king. It was then the grumbles turned to revolt and soon the whole kingdom was up in arms. They marched on the castle. Those who saw him as a god prayed for him to end it. Those who saw him as a knight shouted for him to enter the battle. Those who saw him in their dreams—“ she broke off, blushing. “I don’t remember what they wanted.”

“I could guess.”

“Hush!” She puts a finger across his lips. “Anyway. In the midst of the chaos came a woman. She made her way to the castle and said to the king –  _You are a mere man. Accept this or you will fall._ He took no notice of her the first, second, third time she came and said those words. She came to him but once more and whispered something in his ear. The king stood and stepped out to the balcony where his restless people stood. He spoke her words and a sudden peace descended.”

“What did she say to him?” asks Jaime. His eyes were shut now and his voice drowsy.

“It didn’t matter. It was the fact that he spoke to his people that meant everything. No god would deign to acknowledge his followers. No knight speaks to the commoners. No lover whispers to all women and all men. The people saw that he was a man and could not be everything to everyone.”

There is silence and she thinks he is asleep as she watches his chest rise and fall slowly. She bends down to kiss his forehead softly.

“Whatever the stories say, you mean everything to me,” she whispers against his hot skin.

He stirs under her, his lips catching hers. “Now, wench, how do you expect me to fall asleep after such a declaration?”

Brienne shrugs and reddens, but her shoulders curve downwards as she finds his kisses reason enough to stay awake a little longer. 


	3. Brienne is a natural swimmer, whereas Jaime isn't all that comfortable in the water

Water drips on him, jerking him out of the sun soothed doze Jaime had been enjoying. The cold, salty drops almost hiss as they hit his brown baked skin; shocking but in a good way, a way of letting him know he was still alive when his senses had dulled for a moment. He opens his eyes, hand lifted against the strong sun, to gaze at the source of the shadow and the water. Long legs, the longest he’d ever seen, rise above him. Tanned too, and muscled. He knew them well. Above a simple, plain black swimsuit and a freckled, grinning face gazing down at him.

“Come on, it’s glorious,” a laughing voice says somewhere far above.

More drips this time, as she stretches over him for a towel.

He groans half-heartedly at her needling. “Feels pretty cold to me, wench. No chance.” He wraps his fingers round her ankle only inches from his face, the fine bones flickering under his palm. She jumps from his unexpected touch, but relaxes a moment later. They both know she could wrench away from his grasp all too easily.

“You say that every day. It’s really not as bad as all that.” She slips from his grasp, sitting next to him in a muddle of long limbs and freckles.  She towels her blonde, salt sticky hair slowly, gazing out to the hazy sky that always appears at the end of a hot day. It will be clear again tomorrow, the air renewed and sharp.

Jaime stretches and sits up, resting on his elbows. He leans to one side, to press his lips against a shoulder that is damp and salty and warm already. She looks down at him, blue eyes sharp, waiting for him.

“Why do you want me to come with you?” he asks.

She has a gracefulness in the water that draws his eye, makes him watch her as she goes up and down the bay. It’s a beautiful thing to watch her swim; she is perfectly in time and has an easy power, an easy strength that undoes every moment of awkwardness on dry land. It’s another thing he’s found out about her since coming to Tarth. He can’t believe he nearly turned down her invite to stay for the summer; an invite that was offered because she knew better than him how he still needed to recuperate after his incarceration in a Japanese prisoner of war camp; how he needed space and light to chase away his nightmares. 

“I’d only get in your way.” He glances down at his arm, shortened abruptly a year ago as a punishment for stealing food from the camp kitchen. A hand for a chicken egg.

“No, you wouldn’t. I want you to swim… because I think it’ll be good for you.”

He smiles up at her. “Good for me?”

She juts out her jaw at his teasing tone. “Yes. Not only exercise, but it’s it does something for the soul too.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment, before biting her lip and looking back towards the horizon.

There is little left of his soul these days, though the girl always thinks otherwise. “Why do you swim?” he asks suddenly, his hand findings hers, the dried salt scratching between their fingers.

“It gives me peace. I don’t need to think of anything or speak to anyone. Just count each stroke, one at a time,” she explains after a long silence.

He squeezes her hand but says nothing. They sit there as the sun swells and colours everything in a soft glow.

Perhaps he will try tomorrow. 


	4. Brienne is actually quite pretty when she gets cleaned up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So I don’t actually agree with this prompt. Canon continuously reminds us that Brienne is not pretty. Not when she’s cleaned up, not ever. If I was going to write something to the prompt, it might as well not be Brienne. That said, I naturally thought of the saying “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” and one thing led to another…

What is it that they say? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder? A fair statement perhaps, and true enough for most. But not her; she cannot look upon herself and say she isn’t anything but ugly and there has been no one else to say otherwise. There is nothing outright that marks her out, just a collection of features that are just slightly too large, too crooked, too out of place on the face and body of a woman. There is her height as well to contend with, but she doesn’t mind that as much as the rest; the freckles, the large mouth and ears that cannot be hidden away. The scar, though healed, that invades her cheek.

She looks at the mirror with a sigh. As much as the septas try, they cannot make her into something she is not. She is not fair or pretty. Yet when she says to them to leave her be and that it does not matter to her, the flock of twittering ladies do not seem to hear and the chatter of their tuts and sighs and poor yous start to hit home. She does not want to get upset over this. She has shed enough tears about things she could not change as a girl. She thought the time when she took each slight as an arrow to her heart had been left behind; replaced by a hard look given to those seek to mock her, but everything has been turned upside down since returning and she finds the tears once again pricking her eyes.

She only bends her head, picks at her skin and sits there, a hapless participant in a yet another game she does not understand, because she knows it is expected of her and she will not let her father down. There are guests, and it is her nameday, and the whole world has determined what highborn ladies must appear as on their namedays. She looks up for the last time before she goes; a homely face stares back with her freckles and her mouth pulled into a line that makes her look uneasy in her own skin.

The mirror does not lie but the lords and ladies who meet her entrance do. They smile and bow and offer their greetings and saluations, but she knows what they make of the sight of her; a maid who does not fit her sea-blue dress properly, a serious lady who does not light up the room; an unmarried heir who is unbecoming to all. She sits self-consciously beside her father, picks at her food. There might have been the son of a bannerman sitting the other side of her, but she is glad that at least that lesson, taught long ago, has not been forgotten in the years that have passed.

The night has already long settled on the isle and the feast is almost over and she is wondering when she can be allowed to go, to rip the dress from her and seek the comfort of her bed when the castellan comes to her father, an urgent whisper passed between the old men. Both glance at her and she cannot help but frown at their attentions. Her father nods and reaches for her hand. She follows him easily, unsure of what it could be for both to leave the table and wait in a cold, shadowed corridor. She asks, but all her father does is shake his head at her impatience. Wait, child. Wait, you shall see soon enough. There is a curious smile on his face and she does not know what to make of it.

Footsteps approach and she finds her mouth dry, her heart beating quicker and quicker. Her breath goes completely when she sees who it is. She turns to her father, convinced that this is some kind of trickery, a mummer’s jape to break her heart. But all he does is cock his head at her disbelief and says something about there being a reason that there is a free chair on the high table, and how he could not bear to see his dearest daughter so forlorn for a moment longer.

She turns back to the figure, close now, and finds she barely has the strength to stutter his name. Ser Jaime. He smiles at her, bows low and takes her hand to his mouth, a kiss for her nameday. My lady. He turns to her father, bowing again and murmuring his apologies for being late. Her father laughs his acceptance, moving back into the hall. Ser Jaime offers her his arm, gesturing towards the door. She accepts jerkily, her mind too overwhelmed to refuse, to ask him how and why and when. All eyes are upon them as they take their seats again, but for once she does not think to care. Cups are filled for a toast, her father’s voice booming loud above her. She feels the man on the other side of her shift, a hand on hers. You did always suit blue, my lady, he whispers, it brings out your eyes. She blushes at his words but when she turns back to the sea of people in front of her, she has a smile that lights up her face.


	5. Jaime being jealous/possessive over Brienne

He felt bitter even at the mere thought of it. Why did she decide to spar with  _him_ of all people, to press and attack and share a barely there smile when she won a bout? There was Pod to do that with; he needed the practice at least. But Brienne hadn’t refused when Hunt had asked her to in the lull after their midday meal. He watched the two of them with increasing fury, anger darkening his face and clouding his mind until he could bear it no longer and stalked away from the clearing. He headed for the river, perhaps the gushing torrents would force these feelings from him, cleanse him of his jealousy, his envy. It did nothing of the sort, but at least the noise was great enough to muffle the clash of sword on sword. He looked down at his stump and sighed. It should have been him, practising with the wench, not Hyle- _bloody_ -Hunt. Not Hunt with all his easy words and too frequent smiles; not Hunt with his obvious intent to marry Brienne only for her land and worth; not Hunt because he didn’t deserve to be in her sight let alone her partner. When he had pointed this out to the girl, all she had done was shrug and talk about being responsible for him.  _Infuriating, stubborn wench_. He knew his type, and whatever front he put on with Brienne, she was almost definitely going to get her innocent fingers burnt again.

He stood suddenly. He shouldn’t have left her alone with him. He hadn’t done so since they’d escaped Lady Stoneheart’s clutches days ago; that bastard Hunt was probably just waiting for an opportunity to have his way with her, force her to marry him for the sake of her honour. He was relieved to find that both were standing yards apart, leaning on their swords and catching their breath.

“Where have you been?” asked Brienne, cocking her head at his serious expression.

“Nowhere,” he snapped back. “Have you two quite finished? We should be moving on.” He walked over to their mounts, tugging furiously on the girth.

Her face paled and then frowned at his tone as she sheathed her sword. “Yes, of course…” She walked up to the horses. “What is wrong?” she whispered, a hand on his arm pulling him away from the others.

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.” Her mouth was tight, her stare uncompromising.

“The sooner we get going, the sooner we can find the girl and the sooner he—“ Jaime gestured towards Hunt, “—can go back to whatever hole he crawled from.”

Confusion swept over her face and came to rest in her eyes. “Hunt?” she repeated, more loudly that she intended.

From behind them came the droll voice of the man in question. “My ears are burning, you know.” He joined them, a flick of his hair as he caught Brienne’s eye. “I do so hate to feel left out, as you know, Lady Brienne.”

Jaime watched Brienne turn red and duck her gaze at Hunt’s provocation and he spun on his heel, bearing down on the other man. “Don’t think one sparring match will turn her to you. I know what you did—”

Hunt snorted in laughter, but his hand went to the hilt of his sword. “Jealous, are we, Kingslayer? Can’t hold onto a sword, can’t hold onto a woman, is it that? You can’t blame me for giving it, giving  _her_  a go—“

Jaime found his fist connecting with Hunt’s jaw; his flesh and bones bending under the considerable weight he put behind the punch. A searing pain reached across his knuckles in return, but the thump of Hunt hitting the ground, his bloodied lip and the surprised look on his face was worth it.  _He found that it was always worth it_   _when it came to Brienne._

Reaching for his reins like nothing had happened; he saw her look at him slack-jawed, a slow wave of disbelief just about to break across her freckled, homely face.

“Seven hells, wench, don’t look at me like that. You should be grateful – that’s twice I’ve had to clout someone defending your bloody honour and name.”

With that, he turned his horse north and smiled as Brienne’s shout carried over the air.

“Twice?!” 


	6. one sentence fic challenge

**Fluff**

When she found out he was ticklish – just to the side of his chest – she made very sure to kiss his delicate skin there whenever possible, grazing her mouth over the lean flesh and feeling his ribs move like some otherworldly thing as he laughed and groaned and growled at her touch.

**Angst**

Jaime watched Brienne depart back to a destroyed Tarth and cursed his white cloak for stopping him chasing after her, cursed his vows that stopped him marrying her, cursed his foolish self for not telling her how much he loved her, how much he would miss her, how much he didn’t want to ever let her go.

**Unresolved Sexual Tension**

She had just pushed him to the ground with a thump as a cloud of arrows passed over them, but instead of reaching for her sword to fight the nearing enemy, she could only think about how tight Jaime seemed to be holding her and why he was looking at her with such dark eyes that flicked down to her lips and back up to her stare.

**AU**

Brienne held her father’s hand a little tighter as they watched the boat struggle to dock in the rolling waves that crashed and heaved against the rocks; it felt like they had been waiting for the ship and the boy for ages – the storms of winter kept everyone away, even important people like the Lannisters.

**Modern**

As Brienne stood, adjusting her wig and gown before she began her defence, she was horribly aware that Mr Jaime Lannister QC ( _prosecuting_ ) was watching her with a cruel smirk, just waiting for her to make a mistake and lose the trial, but when she cleared her throat and turned to the jury, she promised herself that would she would never let that happen; she would never lose to  _him._

**Hurt/Comfort**

He liked washing her, tracing his fingers over the scars and the dancing muscles as he felt her frozen skin warm under his touch; he knew it was the only time when Brienne forgot about the horrors that lay outside in the snow for just a moment and allow herself to soften her shoulders and find his arms for a desperate hug.

**First time**

Huge blue eyes looked at him in a curious mixture that he knew was unique to Brienne, a look of wary disbelief and wondrous joy that only happened when he did something for the first time; this time it was giving her a simple bunch of flowers, last night it had happened when he had finally pressed his lips to hers.

**Friendship**

She sighed at his drunken steps, but still reached out a steadying hand towards him and shrugged off his barely comprehensible apology with a refrain that appeared in her mind each time she found herself getting Jaime out of the endless scrapes he seemed attracted to –  _what are friends for?_

**Smut**

All she was aware of at that point in time was the ripple of the lean muscle that flowed and ebbed under her hands, the way his keen eyes watched her every move as her hips came up to meet his, pulling him more deeply inside of her and causing both bodies to tremble and groan.

**Death**

She watched the maester take away her first child; the son who had kicked and lived inside her for so many moons but was now gone from this world, and she felt her heart break, a break that ripped her apart, sapped all her strength and left her in the shadow of endless, agonising grief.


	7. Brienne is hiding an injury and Jaime finds out

“What would you have me do?” asked Brienne, her voice harsh. She winced at the effort of speaking, but Jaime had his back to her and didn’t see and she was glad.

“To not hide it from me,” replied Jaime. She watched him pace up and down the room, floorboards creaking. He was angry with her, she knew, but he didn’t understand.

“I did not hide it, I j-j-just didn’t tell you—“

He stopped and turned, eyes already narrowed. “When did you start using such slippery meanings? You did hide it from me, wench. Plain and simple. I blame myself for not noticing sooner, but I still ask you – why?”

She bit her lip, trying to judge a suitable response. She decided on the truthful one. “I could not allow myself to be the reason we are too late to save her.”

There was a faint groan from him as he shook his head. “It will not matter one jot if you die here,” he said quietly.

She stared back crossly. “I will not die—“

"Are you a maester now, as well as a stubborn mule?” spat Jaime, his hand rubbing through his hair in frustration.

“I will not die. It is not as bad as you think. I was managing before—“

“Before you fell from your horse? Before you cried out when I helped you up? Before I felt the fever on you? Gods, don’t you see how close you were to a stupid, meaningless death? Could you not trust me?”

Brienne bit the inside of her cheek when she caught his anguished gaze. She looked down at her hands, clutching the white sheet covering her. She did not remember how she ended up in this room, in the bed where she now sat, a wool nightgown on her instead of her own clothes. Each time she breathed, she felt the tight bandages round her middle, the dulled shriek of the flesh underneath, torn apart by a frantic swipe of a sword. She did remember stripping off behind some rocks when they were finally far enough way to be safe from their anonymous attackers. There had been blood, lots of it. But not too much. Her knees trembled when she bundled a strip of torn fabric into the wound. But she could cope.  _She had coped, until she couldn’t. It had hurt so much._

She dug her fingernails into her palms at his words, at the spark of pain that fought its way through her stomach. “I do trust you… I am sorry, Jaime.”

He sat abruptly at the end of her bed, looking at her intently, a wryness to his expression like always. “Enough. It is done now. It was just damned good fortune that the septon knew something more useful than his prayers.”

She nodded reluctantly. “But you must go on without me,” she said after a beat of silence. “Lady Sansa is out there—we have sworn oaths—”

Jaime shook his head again, his eyebrows lifting. “Not likely, wench. I have not abandoned you yet and do not intend to start now. The oath can wait.”

She opened her mouth to disagree, but there was something in his eyes, an uncompromising look of care that made it suddenly easy for her to stop fighting him for once and surrender to sleep instead.


	8. Jaime thinks his stump will horrify Brienne. She proves him very wrong.

He asks this time. Cloaked in a wit he has to search deep for, he asks if she minds it, minds it touching her if it should happen by mishap. He did not ask last time, with Cersei. She did mind. He searches for the same blaze of horror in this other, different face.

She looks at him and blinks. The freckles twitch and then settle, determined.

He is ready to nod his head and laugh, to pretend he does not mind when she reaches for it, running her fingers over the unnatural end, the mangled flesh hard and angry under her touch.

He knows he is holding his breath, but he cannot keep up with such banality now, not when she studies him so closely. He thinks he sees her readying herself to push it away, that she cannot bear it any longer. Blue flicks from it to him, telling him something he does not understand.

The blue flares for a moment— now she will let go, he thinks. She must. But she does not. She brings it to her lips. The first of him that has pressed against the red, soft place of bitten flesh, rare smiles.

How can you, he wants to ask, with something so— In the muddle of nerves bunched tightly, he can feel the pressure of her mouth, a light burst of a breath tickle over the ruined skin. It is like nothing he knows before. He forgets what thought he had, forgets everything. All he can do is stare in awe. 


	9. Jaime's first reaction to Tarth

_Imagine, then, an emerald in sapphire waters…_

He remembers her words well enough, though she spoke them long ago. Now summer has returned and on the peaceful sea, he looks to the horizon for her isle. He sucks in the fresh air, his heart racing quicker than the boat moves. Yes! There! A hazy line, smudged against the sky. He strains his sight, but land only comes closer in infinitesimal stages as the sun creeps from dawn to dusk. His impatience has only grown in strength, he thinks. After all that time in the black cells, it is no wonder. His fist clenches at the dark memories but he keeps looking forward. She is right of course, the water is almost an ungodly blue.

_…where the white sands stretch in a curve…_

He is told the Hall is an hour’s walk. There is a brusqueness in his delivery; he knows he is a curse, a fate to be avoided. They wonder why he has been freed; he wonders too.  But he feels the ground under his feet and something lifts from his shoulders, from his mind. It matters not what others think; only that he is here, finally.  He sets off, through the loud business of the harbour. Fishwives shout their wares while their husbands wrangle the brightly painted boats. He looks because he can; because it has been too long since he saw such normalcy. He sees it all and the ordinariness becomes beautiful.

_…and the meadows reach upwards before  forests dark and cool…_

Beyond the port, an overwhelming peace descends. Not the deadly silence he has been used to, not the endless quiet haunted by his thoughts. Just the calm sounds of the wind, the call of a bird on his way home, the lap of a wave in its endless journey. He stops and stares at the sea, just for a moment. The sun warms his skin, awakening him. He takes a breath; he can smell the grass under his feet, the sap in the trees. This is a good place, he feels easily. A good, gentle place. When he turns away, he sees a crenulation breaking over the crest of a hill.

_…and there are falls, where the water dances and laughs…_

The castle is sturdy, an old mark on this sweet land. He sees the walls are thick, even at a distance. They are meant to keep out foes, his kind of man. They might yet refuse him entry. But he hopes not. Not when he is so close. Not when he has dreamt of this for so long. He cannot forget how he was brought up from the bowels of hell. To his death, he understood. A final question is put to him however. He is asked where he would go to live out his life, had he the choice.  The place springs from his lips without hesitation. It is a prayer, a plea for the girl with violet, violent eyes. She glances down at a slip of paper, and then to the short man he once knew at her side. He nods. She speaks. It is done. He is here.

_…Tarth._


	10. Jaime and Brienne moaning the other's name!

Her head twists round sharply when she hears another use his first name, his  _real_ name, not the tabloid-headline smear of  _Kingslayer_ or his infamous surname, the name that brands itself across the firm _._ But it is only his new secretary, who wraps the word round her immaculately painted lips as she pouts and preens in front of him, playing with the rim of the glass of wine he has bought her. His name is  _mine_ , Brienne thinks as she stares at the creature. The name stalks her dreams every night now, ever since she sat alone by his hospital bed, eyes flickering between his pale face and the space where his hand should have been. That night when he had spilled his secrets and soul to her. She knew she mumbled the name in her half-sleep, waking to its echoes and bitter longing in her empty bedroom.

He catches her eye and smirks at the obvious jealousy that marks her serious face. They stare at each other for a long moment. They’ve been here before. They have history— when he had come home broken and hopeless, she’d been there day and night to make sure he kept himself alive. They had come together one gloomy afternoon, the act brief and unromantic, two despairing and lonely souls clinging to the other because the alternative would have killed them just then. It was never spoken about, and she became just a colleague again, almost. Now, Brienne is suddenly tired of backing away and covering her feelings with useless blushes and stuttered denials. She wants to prove to the  _pretty girl_  that it he is not out of her reach; that she,  _ugly dull Brienne,_  can have a man like him. So she stands tall and keeps the muscles of her face still and calm. She lets the emerald gaze, normally as hard as the jewel it shares its colour with, settle on her. She can see it soften fractionally; his interest is piqued. The smirk changes too— deliberately removed from his lips with a twitch. But he does not move and her heart beats louder.

She can bear the tension no longer, not when the girl also turns her gaze and wonders why Brienne— that  _beast_ — means she is being ignored by the handsome man. Brienne dips her chin to her chest in defeat, a silent, formal farewell.  She works through the crowd, unconscious of the man following her. As she reaches the door, her hand is clasped in a firm grasp. She refuses to look around, but does not claim her hand back. He is pulling her away from her escape; and she follows him, eyes only on the sweet spot of skin between collar and the neat hairline. There is a tranquil emptiness in her mind— the need in her is too strong to pretend to resist.

When he closes the door behind her, the quietness overwhelms them both. They are close but not touching, taking each other in as if they haven’t seen each other for years. Perhaps they haven’t, not really, not since they both tried to be recreate normality and failed spectacularly. His hand and stump reach up to her face, holds her so lightly she might think it was yet another dream but for the hot breath on her skin as he kisses the corner of her mouth.  She clutches his shirt in her fists and kisses him back. They are more equal this time— she knows this is not a pity fuck like before. They understand each other better now.

They travel backwards, hands all over each other but it is only when Brienne’s back hits the wall that she finally breaks the silence and speaks—

“ _Jaime_ —“ Her voice is low, demanding.

 He looks at her, breathing in all her desire.  “I thought I was the one who is supposed to be green-eyed?”

Blue flashes. “You dragged me in here.”

“I  _know_.”

Their agreement on what they both want is shared despite their fighting, provocative glares. She helps him with the buttons on her shirt, then pulls his over his head. His hair is tousled and she reaches up to calm it, long fingers trailing down his spine, leaving goosebumps in her wake. He burrows his head in the crook of her neck, pushing his hips against her as if he can’t get enough of her.

“I couldn’t pretend anymore,” she whispers, her guard down. His hand slips into her knickers, into the intense warmth. He remembers how soft her skin was, just at the crease of her thigh.

“ _Brienne—_ “ His voice is hoarse at finding her wet, waiting for him. “I haven’t fucked anyone else— since that day we did—“

“ _Jaime—“_ His fingers are more deft this time, curling in her and rubbing against her just as she fantasised. Her chest is tight and the words come clipped with emotion. “I didn’t know you waited—”

He finds her lips, murmurs against them. “Why did we convince ourselves this was wrong?” he asks himself as much her.

“It wouldn’t have worked. Not then.” She realises that now, only when she has him back to touch and smell.

“I can’t leave you again.”

“I won’t leave you—“ she whispers, the words striking his heart.

With her honesty comes a flicker of muscles in her core, the short sharp breaths she takes whisper over his cheek— it makes him feel so alive that she is coming undone, that he is bringing about the pleasure that infuses every cell in her.

“ _Jaime—_ “ His name now comes as a glorious moan and his cock twitches in response.

She feels it, unbuckling his belt with fast hands while teasing his bottom lip between her teeth.

“ _Brienne_ —“ he growls, frustration and anticipation heavy in the word. Finally free, he pulls up her skirt and leg, and pushes himself into her.

They moan together, long and low— their names come with every breath, every thrust, every moment.

Brienne pulls him closer still, the angle of her body causing his cock to hit some place that makes her knees unable to bear her weight. She wraps her arms around him so that she will not fall because she cannot stop here, she cannot hold the unbearable pressure back any longer—

Her final gasping  _Jaime_ travels to the very inside of him and bursts like a ball of light. He can only think of her as the fire burns through and saves him—  _Brienne._


	11. Brienne having a "friend" over and Jaime accidentally interrupting

Brienne heard Jaime’s voice just a second before he came in. Her gut told her he wouldn’t knock and wait, like any normal human being, even when it was  _her_  flat, her tiny studio with a bed and a kitchenette and hundreds of books taking up the rest of the space. It was too late to do anything but turn her head towards the noise, eyes wide open in horror as Jaime barged in—

“Wench— where the hell are you? We’re going to be late—“

All the air in the room vanished. It tore away Jaime’s words, leaving him gaping like a landed fish. She saw him take the whole situation in with those intelligent eyes and saw the light in them flicker, dim and then extinguish. It was like watching him being turned to stone. Where his blood disappeared, hers rushed to her naked skin, blooming like a rash. She couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t even move herself off the man under her, her long legs curled up astride him, sheets all astray.

As she pictured what the scene must look like to Jaime, she realised he wasn’t standing in the doorway anymore. She willed her muscles to move, begged and pleaded and forced herself to act.  _No! No! No! Not this, not Jaime seeing this—_ it had to be a nightmare, it  _had_ to be—

She turned her attention back to the other man. He was looking at her with disbelief, his hands still clutching her waist.

“You’ve got to go—“ stuttered Brienne as she leapt off him. “Sorry, but I can’t— you’ve got go,” she repeated, hearing an edge of panic in her voice.

“Huh. That was not the ending I was hoping for—“ he muttered, gazing as Brienne pulled on shorts and a top.

She looked up at him with confusion.  _Why was he still here?_  “I don’t have time for this—“ she mumbled. “Please, just leave—“ she said to him from the doorway, tongue and face feeling numb from shock. Jaime wasn’t in the hallway. She rushed to the stairs, just spotting his blond head sprinting down.

“Jaime!” she tried to shout, except her voice was strangled and weak.

Her long legs carried her down quickly but not before he’d reached his own flat, door banging resolutely in her face. She hit the heel of hand against it, a yelp of frustration following.

“Jaime!” she cried.

Silence.

_Well, if he can just walk into my flat, I will do the same._

She rattled the handle and almost fell through the doorway as Jaime opened the door.

She stared at him. “Jaime, please— can I just explain—“

He gave her a quick, cutting snarl of a smile.

“Nothing to explain. You can do what the fuck you like, including obviously,  _fucking_. Just lock the door next time.”

Brienne took a step backward at the anger in him. Neighbour, confidante, then sort-of-friend— never had she seen him like this. Her mind seemed to take his wrath and make it her own.

“Fuck you. Ever heard of knocking?” she spat back.

“Yeah, well I wasn’t expecting that at three-o’-bloody-clock in the afternoon.”

“Don’t you judge me. You don’t understand. You couldn’t.”

Jaime puffed his cheeks out. “I’ve just about given up that struggle.”

She glared at him. “Anyone would think you cared—”

His eyes flashed, the muscles in his face setting themselves in a particular fashion. It was his tell— she’d spent long enough with him to know that unconscious tick only appeared when she struck the truth, deep inside him.

“You  _do_  care—“ she murmured, her gaze softening with confusion.

“No, I bloody do not.”

“You’re a rubbish liar,” she snapped back.

He took a step towards her, head tilted, power back in his gaze. “If I care, then so do you. Why else did you come running after me?”

She paled. “I-I-I wanted to explain.” It sounded even weaker this time round. But it wasn’t what it seemed— and she had to make it clear to Jaime her reasons even if she drowned in her embarrassment.

“So you said. Come on, out with it. I haven’t got all day.”

She resisted the urge to snarl at him.

“You want me to say it? Huh? I’ll give you the awful truth. I’m  _twenty-five_  years old, Jaime— and I was so far behind the other girls… I just wanted to be normal, do you see? No, of course you don’t…

She half turned away. Jaime’s green stare was too intense to keep her voice flowing.

“You’ve had girls flinging themselves at you since your voice broke. But he was one of the very few who didn’t laugh in my face when we met. Then he took me out to dinner, and he seemed nice… As everyone keeps reminding me, I should be grateful that anyone would look twice at me. Even I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to add to my reputation of being a frigid giant. So we did  _it_  and I joined the human race.  It’s not exactly how I imagined I would lose my—“ She closed her eyes and breathed out— “but there you go. It’s done with. Remarkably he wanted to keep seeing me and I suppose I was flattered. That’s what you interrupted… it was a mistake from the start.” She looked back at him.  “I’m sorry you had to see my quarter-life crisis like that.”

He contemplated her, taking a moment to let her story sink in. He pursed his lips and then his face cleared. “You could have asked me.”

She blinked—“ _What?”_

Her mind was still full of her excruciating speech, but his words travelled through her shame with the accuracy and shock of a bullet. She couldn’t have heard  _that_. He didn’t actually say  _that_.

“If you were that keen—“ he said with a raised eyebrow, smile growing—  _it was kinder this time, a young, inviting smile._ This was a sincere Jaime. A sincere  _flirty_  Jaime— “I’m sorry to have missed that particular pleasure. For what it’s worth and if you would have listened, I would have told you that there’s nothing cold about you. And that you deserve better than that—“ he flicked his eyes upwards, “—compromise.”

It was all she could do to close her mouth at her realisation that this was no joke, no dream. His crumpled shirt, the lock of hair that stubbornly refused to lie with the rest showed her this was no figment of her imagination. She’d tried to convince herself that her feelings for him were pure and honourable— a harmless affection born out of respect. Her heart told her something quite,  _quite_ different when her thoughts slipped into less innocent wanderings.

She swallowed. “You’re m-my friend— “ She gave him a get out clause, a habit of self-destruction that had been beaten into her a long time ago.

“Only your friend?”

“Well, I—“ she quailed. Her heart raced so quickly she felt dizzy. He was the one she wanted, truly wanted. Her desire sprung tiny, exciting bubbles in her blood but she forced herself to be still. “I didn’t think you—“

His hand appeared on her arm, pulling her close enough to steady her body against his. “Bloody hell, Brienne— do you what know what it took not to punch his lights out? I couldn’t see you touch another.”

“Oh—”

“That’s my apology by the way.”

“I see.”

“I’m not entirely sure you do—“ he said, voice darkening as he neared her. She only had a moment to take a breath before her lips were caught by his, warm and strong. She reached for him, slipping into the grooves of his body like she’d done it for years. His mouth pressed hard kisses to her jaw and neck, until she felt a breath of air against her ear.

“Close the door and come here,” he whispered.

Before she was pulled away, Brienne reached back to turn the key.  _No interruptions allowed this time._


	12. Jaime asks Brienne to pretend to be his girlfriend so his Father stops trying to set him up with debutantes

“Jaime, of all the favours you’ve asked, this one I just can’t do—“ Brienne replied. “It would be horrid, worse… more like torture.” She gave an involuntary shiver, despite the hot summer’s day. He’d asked to meet her in the park, away from his large town house. _He’s embarrassed by me, by our friendship, even after all these years._ She swallowed the thought, her long fingers worrying the cloth of her blouse.

Jaime sighed. “Brienne, you know I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. My damned father won’t let this marriage thing go. He’s like a dog with a bone. He won’t rest until I’m set up with vacuous, but rich girl—“

“And pretty, they’d be pretty. You’ll at least have that. No-one will believe I am your girlfriend, even if I said yes. You’ve been the catch of the last decade, remember? Legions of mothers have you top of their lists.”

“Even with my… reputation? And injury?”

“Nothing Lannister fortunes can’t solve.”

Jaime caught her eye, surprise at her tone etched on his face.

She knew she sounded bitter. But this was all too much. One step too far in their story. She’d found him and nursed him in the desert sands of North Africa, waved to him from the boat that took her to France, letting herself weep once she got below decks, and been his friend, confidante ever since she’d returned. Five years later, she felt her life was on hold. Waiting for some sign that he loved her, as she did him.

They both gazed down at the ground in a laden silence. Stubborn, the pair of them, these moods could last for days.

“I don’t want someone who’s after my money. I don’t want someone who can’t see beyond the headlines,” muttered Jaime.

Brienne huffed. “You’ve narrowed your choice rather, then.”

“Why are you so cross?” snapped Jaime. “This isn’t easy for me—“

Brienne stood as if an electric bolt had passed through her and turned on him. “It isn’t easy for you?! You are the most selfish, arrogant man I have had the displeasure of meeting. All these years and you’re as blind as ever. So no, I’m not pandering to you or your father anymore. I’ve had quite enough.”

She stormed towards the park exit, desperate to just be at home and the sweet quietness that awaited her.

But Jaime had other ideas.

“Will you wait a second, you bloody woman—“ he shouted, ignoring the tuts of passer-bys.

He grabbed her elbow, his grip strong enough to resist her shakes.

“Are you going to listen to me?” he asked.

Brienne set her jaw. “No.”

“Incorrigble.”

“Idiot.”

“Glorious when irked.”

“What—“

He pulled her behind a tree, his hand slipping down her arm into hers.

“Would you come to the ball if I asked you? Properly that is?”

“You have a bloody nerve—“

“Yes or no?”

“Your father will still be playing matchmaker.”

Jaime rolled his eyes.

“Stuff him.”

“But—“

He caught her wariness. “It’s not a trick or a ploy. I’m being entirely serious.”

“Why then? Now, after all this time?” She could feel the emotion in her voice, her shoulders bending.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

He said it so quietly she didn’t think she’d heard it right.

“Can you say that again?” she whispered.

“I don’t want anyone else. Ever.”

She looked at him, the handsome face she saw first nearly ten years ago still the same underneath the creases and greying temples. He was still dangerous, still a risk, still intoxicating.

She took a breath, a shy smile appearing. “Ask me properly then.”


	13. Jaime and Brienne wake up on the Quiet Isle after the Lady Stoneheart ordeal

He is praying, fervently. To the old gods, to the new gods, to any damned god that will hear his plea. _Let her live. Let her live. Let her live._ But still she does not wake. He sits on the side of her bed as the small room darkens and then lightens and all he can see is the gentle, steady rise and fall of her chest. Even now, days on, the Brothers flutter around him for he is not uninjured. A broken arm. A gash the length of his chest where a sword found flesh. It is not the same with the girl. Jaime looks at Brienne and he can see no hurt done to her. Her face and hair are clean, washed of someone else’s blood to leave such a pale, young face. _Innocence itself._ But it hides the truth. The scene that tells all plays in his mind again and again, caring little if he is asleep or not. He has only spoken of it once, when he dragged her onto a horse and galloped to this place, the Quiet Isle lying peacefully in its watery location.

His cries of help raised the men, the Brothers. They rowed over speedily, understanding at once that she is the one worst off— Brienne of Tarth, he whispered to their query. They placed her carefully in the boat, and helped him in. The eldest Brother, grey hair and black eyes, asked him to explain. Jaime tried, but the words came in short, stuttered gasps, like the blood that spluttered everywhere. Then there was a wrinkled hand on his remaining one— it calmed him suddenly and brought him back from the panic that edged closer and closer to taking over.

“We had to kill her—“

“Who?” asked the Brother.

Jaime paled even now. “Lady Stoneheart.”

The Brother pursed his lips but motioned for Jaime to continue.

“Brienne found me at Pennytree. Spun some story to get me away. We were three days ride from the Brotherhood’s camp. She told me the truth that first night. I persuaded her that we could end this once and for all… by ourselves—“ He swallowed. “It’s my fault. A cripple and a distraught wench. How could we…?”

“And the injuries?”

“We waited until sunrise. To catch them sleeping. The outlaws fell easily enough but the dead woman had two guards. I was fighting one— I spun round to see the wench fighting the other, but she was distracted by Stoneheart. She kept trying to reason with her… I heard the thump of the axe head on her skull. It was that _thing— she did it_. Brienne didn’t even cry out—“

“Is she dead?”

Jaime laughed bitterly. “Oh, her flesh parted very merrily with a simple iron sword through her bloody throat. I saw that her head was never to meet her body again.”

The Brother raised an eyebrow but said nothing as they reached the isle and Brienne was whisked away.

He can still smell the blood, the rotten black blood that spurted so violently. The darkness of that place is the opposite of Brienne’s lightness here, a beam of weak sunlight catching her hair and turning it white. _Oaths only lead to despair._ Wake up wench, he murmurs, don’t leave me in this hellish world on my own. But though her hand lies solidly, warmly in his, there is the weight of death behind it. He realises the sun has set once again on an unchanging scene. He has lost count of the days. The Brothers say her skull is not broken, but why then does she not wake— unanswered questions torment him every minute. _Why hadn’t he seen the movement just a moment earlier?_

He lets out a growl and shakes her arm. “Wake up! Wake _up!_ Stubborn, stupid wench…” But his insults peter out. His spirit is drowning. He can feel the effort he takes to simply blink and breathe. And so he sits there and waits.

It is the Brothers who eventually drag him to his own bed; meek resistance is all he can offer. The darkness swamps him, casts its tendrils around his limbs and pulls him down and down and down into a nightmare from which he cannot escape. He feels the shaking on his shoulder before he can bring sense to his body and mind.

“What— what is it?” he croaks as he sits up. “Brienne? Is she—“

It is the elder Brother again. “She is awake.”

A wash of relief nearly knocks him backwards. He has to lean on the older man to get him to Brienne’s room but the sight of her gives him strength. He runs over to her bed and then stops suddenly. She is half-sitting, a frightened child who looks at him with her glorious eyes, blue tainted with terror.

Her lips move before he can hear her question.

“Who are you?”


	14. meeting myself coming back

Brienne, tall as she stood, was suffocating in this small town. A backwater, post-industrial blighted place where the stack of prescriptions for anti-depressants on her desk were the result of unemployment and poverty eating away at people’s souls. There were mothers addicted to pills because they had to stay awake to work two jobs and the others who had nothing else to fill their time, their hungry kids driving them to distraction. Husbands who drank away what little they did earn. Teenagers with baby faces and whispy moustaches on hard drugs, anger their only remaining emotion, stuck in front of her because it was either that or prison. Whoever she saw, it felt like nothing she’d hoped the job to be. She wanted to help people, but all she was doing was holding their hands for a few minutes longer before they slipped off the cliff edge.

She couldn’t even express her frustrations had she found the words. She was the only therapist left in this place. Budget cuts had seen to her colleagues while she was young, just qualified and cheap. Even if she could have found some other job in some other place, there was her dad, dying slowly in a home that had mildew on the windows and nurses who didn’t really care.

To top it all off, the rain that had been present all day seemed to have actually got harder the moment she thought about leaving. Her car was in the shop and the buses had stopped way before. Brienne rubbed her face and sighed. She couldn’t even afford a cab. _A cold wet walk then, to my cold dark apartment._

As she dashed quickly between each pool of lamp-light, her phone buzzed. It was Mrs Stark, matriarch of her neighbourhood and landlady of the Irish bar that signalled she was nearly home.  She had been nice, motherly even, when Brienne first arrived. But since Mrs Stark had lost her husband something had hardened in her. Officially killed as collateral damage in a drive by shooting, the rumours were darker. A revenge killing— deliberating targeting the chief of police who had got too close to the secrets of one the major industrial families in the States. The event had turned the town upside down in grief. The Stark kids had all gone off the rails in their own way. And his wife— well, she had lost her warmth and gentleness in her own reaction to the event. She’d bought the bar with her husband’s life insurance, saying publicly that it was to give her a living, but Brienne wondered if it was a way into the sleazy side of the town, a place she could make deals without questions being asked. The text message asking her to swing by had Brienne swallowing her uneasiness.

She made her way into the stuffy bar, the smell of fries making her stomach grumble. It was half full, most of the crowd in the back playing pool and drinking beer.  It was a down at heel kind of place, reflecting the neighbourhood’s decline into insalubriousness. Mrs Stark— flaming red hair escaping her hair band— beckoned her forwarded, with a bottle already opened.

“Jesus, you want a towel to go with your drink?” asked Mrs Stark.

Brienne blushed, her hand feeling the sopping straw that made up her hair. “Err…it’s okay. You wanted to see me?”

Mrs Stark smiled at Brienne’s directness. “Yeah. That guy— “ She nodded at a man at the far end of the bar. “Recognise him?”

Brienne glanced across and shook her head innocently. “No.”

Mrs Stark pursed her lips and continued in a forced whisper. “Christ, do you not watch the news? He’s Jaime Lannister. Kidnapped, reward money in the millions?”

Of course she knew about him. The case had been in the background of her life for weeks, broadcasters coming up with motives and suspects from all corners of the country. Why had he ended up here of all places? “Have you called the cops?”

Mrs Stark snorted.  “That’s the last thing I’m going to do. You better not even think about it,” she warned.

“What do you mean?” asked Brienne, a shiver suddenly coming through her.

“Sweet girl, I need him alive and staying around here, without attracting attention. He looks like he’s about to jump off the nearest bridge so I figured you’d be the best person to call. I’m giving you that job, okay? You know what his family did to mine. There’s a long game to be played here. A favour given is one owed, remember? I keep the golden boy alive, I— well, enough of that. Now take this whiskey and introduce yourself.”

“Me?” gaped Brienne.

“Yeah. Stop looking at me like that. You see these kind of people every day.”

“But not like this.”

“Tough luck. Now just go and do what I say.”

There was a threat in the landlady’s words, rarely heard but completely sincere. Brienne gave a sharp nod to the order, but she pushed the drink away. As she well knew, alcohol was a depressive and that man looked depressed enough.

As she approached the fugitive Jaime Lannister, she took a moment to consider him.  He looked so far from the rich son that splashed across headlines that she wouldn’t have recognised him. Yes, his hair was blonde but dirty and lanky, long enough to cast deep shadows over his face. His clothes were creased and grubby, like the skin she could see. Most of all she noticed the stark whiteness of a bandage wrapped round his the end of his right arm. An arm he seemed to hold so carefully that it was clear he had left medical care way before the doctors would have liked him to. She felt a spark of curiosity on how he’d got into that much trouble— far more than even Jaime Lannister was well known for.

She slid into the stool next to his. “Hi. I’m Brienne—“

He didn’t look up. “Fuck off.”

“Sorry?” she stuttered.

“You deaf as well as ugly?”

Her jaw set hard. “No.”

“Great. Just fuck off then.”

She was sodden, uncomfortable and trying to talk to someone who she would normally cross the road to avoid just because she was deemed gullible and culpable enough. Something snapped. “You going to kill yourself tonight?”

An incredulous face looked at her. “What?!”

“You heard. Yes or no?”

His face moved into a glare. “How is that any of your business?”

“I’m a therapist. It’s my job so I just want to know so either I can go home or I can ring the hospital and get you sent in.”

He barked a tired laugh. “I haven’t decided yet,” he muttered stubbornly.

“So I get to sit here and catch my death instead. Perfect.”

“I never asked you to stay. I wouldn’t. Even in this dive, you’d be the last person I’d choose.”

“Wow, you Lannisters really are all pricks.”

Jaime stiffened, looking over his shoulder to search the room with desperate eyes. “You know who I am?” he whispered.

She stared at him. “Yeah. Wunder-kid kidnapped on his way to his _private jet_ , right?”

He hunkered down again. “Fuck.”

She softened her defensive stance at the amount of despair in his voice. “So I guess you got away from the people who did that?” She pointed to his arm.

He shifted in his seat but said nothing.

“And instead of calling the cops you walk into a bar and get wasted like an idiot?”

“I don’t trust anyone, _darling._ ”

Brienne winced at the term he used. She had to take a deep breath before she continued, making sure her voice was lowered enough not to draw the attention of Mrs Stark, who was watching them with an intense look. “You don’t know what bar you’ve stumbled into, do you?”

“Why?”

“Winterfell. Owned by Mrs Stark, wife of—“

“—that police chief.” His face went wan, making him look suddenly much older.

“Correct.”

His gaze caught hers. “She going to kill me?” he asked softly.

“I think it’s going to be a little more complicated than that. For both of us.”

“ _Fuck_.”

She silently agreed.

 

 


End file.
